#Chapter 2: A Dish Between Lovers

I feel myself grow cold, both from the cool touch of Don Federico's embrace but also the fury behind his words. The mafia men all fall quit. The man who demanded I strip for everyone's entertainment sinks low in his seat—he's no doubt wishing he could turn invisible or just completely disappear.

I would be more satisfied that a bunch of creepy guys are getting put in their place—but I am currently sitting on the don's lap, so I'm not exactly in a fun, safe position. Between my fear and the don's lack of body heat, I feel like I'm sitting in a coffin.

I understand why Don Federico wears gloves—if he didn't, he'd never be able to shake someone's hands. What little is exposed of his skin—from his wrists to elbows, where his dress shirt hangs—is chill to the touch. He must have some poor blood circulation.

But I don't want to think about Don Federico right now. Because if I think about him, I'm reminded of just how close to him I am and how uncomfortable this all is.

I try to think about my boyfriend instead, hoping that will help me pass the time.

I met my boyfriend James back during my very short time at college. We hit it off at a welcome party. He used some really cheesy pickup lines, but between his earnest conversation and his good looks, we ended up getting together pretty quick.

He's nice. We've got a good thing going on. Which makes me feel even worse about my current situation.

James makes me feel normal—or as close to normal as I've ever felt. It's hard to not feel like a freak when you've grown up taking care of your own mother. I didn't have any choice and it's not like I would do anything differently, but between my mom's battle with addiction and now my battle with her debt, I know I'm living nothing close to the average life.

I've never had the stereotypical suburban life, but James makes that feel like something that's within reach. When I'm with him, all my worries slip away.

And in a room where I'm not certain if I'll be alive at the end of my shift, I don't want anything but to be with James right now.

I keep my head down. I try not to think about how everything feels like a betrayal of James. Instead, I just pray that this mess ends quickly.

When I finally come back to my senses, the private room is empty besides Don Federico and I. I don't remember hearing the other men leave, but I was trying to block them out—a task that became easier after the don chewed them out. Nobody talked to me again after that.

The table is full of empty cups and dishes. My eyes land on the black checkbook we put the receipt in—someone else must've closed out their tab. The manager probably closed their bill once all the orders were placed, that way they wouldn't have to wait for the check.

But more importantly, I can spot several bills peeking out from the black book. They each look like one hundred dollar bills.

That spurs me to action. I need to grab my tip and run while I still can.

I quickly spring up from Don Federico's lap. I grab the check—and its hefty contents. Belatedly, I remember my manners and give a stiff, awkward bow.

"Thank you for dining at Big Donnie's," I say hurriedly.

Before I can retreat, Don Federico's gloved hand grabs my wrist once more.

"Name your terms," he says.

His voice is smooth like honey, but it doesn't change the fact his words make no sense.

"Pardon?" I ask.

"Name your terms," Don Federico repeats. "Tell me exactly what you want. I will fulfill your small, paltry wishes—so long as you stay by my side."

It's such a dramatic promise, I want to laugh—but I don't get the feeling the don would appreciate that. Instead, I shoot him an awkward smile.

I glance discretely at the door. Though I know it's risky, I test the criminal's grip on my wrist ever so slightly. Surprisingly, at the first sign of resistance, he lets my hand go.

His eyes feel like they're peering into my very soul. I take a deep breath, knowing I'm about to make an even riskier move.

"I don't want anything," I say simply. "Thank you though, sir."

"You don't have to lie. Not to me," he says simply. "No matter how dark or ugly your wishes may be, know I've heard worse."

I swallow. Hard. It's easy to believe a mafia man has seen the worst sins a human can commit—and I don't want anything like those.

"Listen," I say firmly, "I am an ordinary person. I'm sure you can find someone more beautiful and... eager for your deal. Besides, I have a boyfriend."

Don Federico's gaze doesn't let up. I can tell he's looking over every inch of me—but what he's looking for is anyone's guess.

"Three days," he says finally. "That's how long I'll give you to think about it."

I could linger on how certain the don sounds. Confidence glitters in his eyes. I know he must be thinking I'll jump at the opportunity later—he must not be used to hearing the word "no."

But that's not my problem. I quickly retreat from the back room.

I stay in the back of the restaurant until closing time. The clock can't seem to move fast enough. Luckily, my apartment is a short walk away.

I mentally rehearse what to say to James. We're meeting tonight for dinner—we try to do it at least once a week, even though work keeps us both busy. He's a pharmacist at the local drug store, so neither of us have particularly good work hours.

I don't want to spend dinner worrying James, but I'm not going to lie to him either. We've been together for almost three years now, and that's only because we're honest and open with each other. I'm not going to ruin that.

I remember cooking with my mother, back during one of her short breaks where she promised she'd stop doing drugs. I must have been in fifth grade—I remember barely being able to reach the spice rack and feeling proud about that. But more importantly, I remember how connected I felt with my mother as she taught me an old stew recipe from her mother.

James and I usually order takeout on weeknights, but I decide to detour to the twenty-four hour grocery store. I think I still remember that stew recipe. I remember the main parts at least—the rest we can improvise together.

It might be a difficult conversation, but it will be easier to have in the kitchen. When you're cooking together with someone, it's easy to remember you're not alone.

I walk up the nine flights of stairs to my apartment. I'm so tired that I don't immediately notice that James' keys are on the table. He must've gotten here early today—good thing I gave him my spare key a long time ago.

I set the groceries on the kitchen counter. As I'm taking stock of my supplies, I hear noise coming from the bedroom.

At first, I assume it's music from one of the faulty speakers I thrifted. James might also be watching some sports videos on his phone. But the voice coming from the room is feminine—and she doesn't sound like she's singing.

I walk to the bedroom door. As I get closer, I can hear James' voice groaning in time with this woman's strange breaths. With growing horror, I realize that my day can get worse.

Because my boyfriend is apparently fucking another woman in my goddamn bedroom.